Into The Ocean
by insiqnificant
Summary: The first time I saw Tate: 3:05 a.m. on the second night I moved into my new house. The second time: I was at Violet's, about to hurt myself again; he had walked in, taken the blade from me, and walked away. The third time: I actually SAW him—those dark, tired eyes and messy hair, the Nirvana t-shirt and converse, and the scars on his arms that were exactly like my own. Tate/OC
1. Resentment

**WARNING: This story is some random, regular bitch I wrote bits and pieces of over the past week whenever I needed to distract myself from my crippling depression and suicidal urges, because I write when I'm stressed out, and I obviously wrote a lot (it's a compilation, u gaiz!). And increasing my skillz are a plus, too. So, take this lightheartedly for those of you who actually end up reading this. This was made purely for my own entertainment and escape, so I wanted to put this up to be able to read it anywhere so I could have a good laugh when things got too stressful.**

**And if you like it, then _holy shit_ bless you.**

**Rated T but TOTALLY expect it to change because, as I said, I could write anything from 6,000 words of PWP to a 1,000 word chapter about a time machine that travels friggin' Violet and Travis back to meet George Washington. Because I write my feelings more than I eat my feelings. **

**Bitch, if I'm in the mood to write about ice cream pizza and a Powerpuff Girls marathon, Tate will be on the couch watching the fucking Powerpuff Girls and eatING ICE CREAM PIZZA.**

***This is told from the perspective of a teenage girl and is loosely based on my perception of the world around me and events that have happened/are happening in my life right now. Most references that I wrote you probably won't get and every grammar mistake you find is probably done on purpose. Don't take this seriously. Enjoy it, yeah? Or cry when sad parts come up because crying is good, okay?***

**~Stay wonderful, and if people are trying to shit on you right now in your life, don't take it—take that shit, heat it up in their microwave, and let the whole house smell like doodoo. I bet they won't do that shit again.**

* * *

Josh and I walk through the front door after a long day of school, accompanied by drooped shoulders and self-loathing. We ignore the angry shouts from my mother and grandparents in the living area and pass by to our shared room, where I stand in the doorway. I rid my hair of its half-assed bun and throw my heavy, painful book bag on my b—_slam_.

Where the hell is my bed?!

"Um..." Josh mumbles beside me, a perplexed look contorting his face, "What the shit?"

I take a deep breath and sigh dejectedly. "I bet Mom's threatening to move out again."

He stares at me, and I can feel his light-colored eyes piercing my face. "Really." It isn't a question.

"What?!"

"I don't think she would be screwing around if she took our beds."

I shrug my shoulders. "Valid point."

The screaming from the living room suddenly stops and someone starts stomping through the house.

Our mother appears in the doorway, all red-faced and yellow-toothed. She takes a long, slow drag from her cigarette and blows the smoke through her nostrils like an angry dragon.

"Let's go, kids." She steps aside to let us pass through, then strides boastfully down the steps.

"If you think they're going with you, you got another thing comin'!" my grandmother hisses, then reaches over the couch to grab Josh by the arm. I sigh, silently wishing that this wouldn't happen every week.

"You can't do anything about it. Now let's go, guys. We have a flight to catch." She pulls me by the arm with the hand that isn't filled with a Redbull and a lit cigarette.

I turn around and silently plead with one of my grandparents to stop her. I really didn't want to leave the safety of their shelter, especially knowing what a monster my own mom could be when they were _around, _so the thought of being alone with her terrified me.

For as long as my mutilated brain can remember, my mother's always been a pretty hardcore drug addict. In this small, washed up town of ours, this was everything but a surprise to find out she had been doing them. Hell, everyone does them around here. It's weird to see someone _not_ high off their asses. But it was when she started doing the hard stuff, like cocaine and heroin, that my family got a bit concerned. Her face had paled and sunken in like a living skeleton, and I haven't seen her eat in over a month. Nothing. But she has to have to keep herself alive, right?

As we walk out of the door, I lower my head in defeat and grit my teeth against oncoming tears.

Well, fuck.

* * *

I stare out of the window monotonously, staring into space and ignoring the passing trees and car-filled four-lanes. My brother is sitting beside me, leaning against his seat belt that he had previously maneuvered into a comfortable pillow. Mom and my soon-to-be stepfather (as she says) are sitting in the two front seats, one of them driving and the other sleeping as soundly as an annoying, evil baby.

"Hey, Marissa," Adam says awkwardly.

I shift my gaze from the window to the rear-view mirror and catch his emerald eyes taking a stealing glance in my direction. I pull my sleeves down until they hide my palms and hold the harsh ends between my fingertips. The bloody tissue is starting to fall off of my recently marred arms.

"Your mother told me you dyed your hair a few days ago. It looks really good blonde," Adam tells me after another awkward silence. And another stare through the mirror.

I pull a section of hair over my shoulder and loathe its reddish tint. I never really liked redheads.

"I'm glad it's still long, though," he continues, and I see him reach over and give my mother's hand a squeeze. He speaks again, "It would've broken your mother's heart to see you with hair shorter than to your elbow."

I smile a bit. His words comfort me in a way: they make me believe that he actually cares about my mom for a moment. But I'm still afraid that he'll turn out to be exactly like the others she blindly trusted before: pathetic, manipulative, abusive, and neglectful. At the end of the day, no matter how much she's hurt me or will hurt me in the future, she's my mother and I'll always love her no matter what.

"Marissa?" Adam's voice fades into my thoughts and I push them aside for future pity sessions. "You do know that I'm trying my absolute best here to help your mother get through all of this, don't you?"

I pull my TOM knock-offs from my feet and curl up in the cheap leather seat. Adam's car, of course; my mom couldn't pay for a car this expensive. "Yeah," I sigh shakily and feign interest in the neon blue nail polish covering my toenails.

"I really want to make this work," he spews out enthusiastically, hitting the steering wheel excitedly with a hand, "You seem like an amazing girl, Marissa, and I would love to get to know you. Maybe not as a father right now,—or ever—but as a person your best friend would want you to meet."

Yet again, I meet his gaze in the rear-view mirror, but he turns away to glance at the road, then back at me. The thickness in the air still reeks of awkward, but it's more subtle than before. Thank God. I can only be involved in so many weird situations before my stomach starts to hurt. I nod my head and glance out of the window. Just what I thought. Still nothing but cars and street lights, with a brand new darkness in the sky. The stars aren't as bright and noticeable as they were back home, but the town we're traveling through seems a lot less...lonely. A small grin creeps onto my lips. Yeah, that's the word.

"Do you mind getting Josh up? Oh, and make sure not to wake up Max—your mother would have my head," Adam tells me softly, accompanied by a light chuckle.

I obey him silently, reaching over the bulky car seat holding a noisy one-year-old, and shake my little brother lightly on the shoulder. He stirs, curses me under his breath, then bends my forefinger back painfully whilst still maintaining the illusion of sleep. My hand instinctively jerks back and...my elbow hits Max's chest.

Wat.

Suddenly, Max starts screeching his lungs out, Josh leans forward to send me an evil glare, and Mom freaks the _fuck_ out in the front seat.

"What the shit happened?" she yells, twists around in her seat to give me an accusing stare, "What'd you do to your brother?"

I sit completely still. Look at her sunken-in cheeks and sickly pale skin and tired, broken eyes and I can't help but notice how much I resemble her and it terrifies me.

The car slows to a stop and along with it, the harsh words erupting from resentful mouths.

"We're here," Adam says cheerfully through the familial battle of silence.

"Perfect," Josh hisses, "let's all act like a family now that we're in public." His upper lip curls disgustedly, as if he had tasted the nasty burnt edges of a well-done steak.

"Enough," Mom warns. "We're trying to start over here, Joshua. Let's leave the past in the past, yeah? Anyways, Marissa?" With a sigh she turns toward me, carries the invisible weight of past experiences that leave her shoulders hunched and tense.

I take my eyes off of the creepy house across the road and watch my mother dig around in the trunk of Adam's Yukon. "Yeah?" I ask, walking over to her side. We're so alike in so many ways. Too alike.

She hands me a pair of—what I'm presuming to be—house keys. "Grab your brother and go unlock the front door."

I stuff the key ring into the pocket at the front of my worn jeans. Both back and one front pocket have large holes in them, so I only get one choice. Careful to remove Max from his car seat in the same condition he was put in, I gently place one hand under him and the other behind his head, then cradle him against my chest as I duck out of the car.

"Hey, look Max, I didn't almost kill you this time," I inform the toddler proudly, and he responds with a few claps of encouragement.

The two of us—well, I do—turn to examine the house, and I carry Max along the expensive-looking stone sidewalk. Adam totally bought this, too. The outside is nothing like its counterparts—it's modern, expensive, and made of a beautiful wood. Every house on this street looks so different I can't even...

The beautiful landscape accessorizing the house and walkway is mostly made up of foliage, shrubbery, and a beautiful breed of purple flower. I reach out to take one of the silky mass of petals and hand it to the toddler, who giggles and buries his small nose into the center.

I advance towards the front door, and notice a slight crack in one of the stone steps leading to the entrance of the house. A colony of ants pass by my feet and walk in such a straight line my kindergarten teacher would cry from joy. The house keys I had taken out of my pocket find purchase in the lock, and I turn one of them this way and that until I hear the familiar click of an unlocked door.

"You would think my family wouldn't conveniently take this long to get some boxes just for the description of the house, but a writer does what a writer wants." I shrug my shoulders.

"Who the hell are you talking to?" Josh shrieks, kicking me in the butt. "I've been standing her for five minutes. Open the _door_!"

"Ya done goofed, Marissa, ya done goofed," I say sadly to myself, then open the front door and step inside. "LOL, I knew it. Adam totally bought this."

The inside of the house is me, and I am the inside of the house. This bitch is as regular as I am and is equally as empty as my soul. The walls are painted a dreaded white and there isn't any furniture at all. Not even a pen someone had forgotten when they moved out. Yeah, this place was made for someone who needed a lot of space, because these rooms are massive! Wait, what did Mom say about this place? Oh, yeah. A two-story built about ten years ago, it has five bedrooms, four baths, a kitchen, a living room, a dining room, an attic—and a computer room on the second floor.

"Not bad," I mutter to myself, then bolt up the stairs so Max and I can claim our rooms.

—

So, it's two o' nine in the morning and I can't. Sleep. Adam's going to take Josh and I to get signed up for school for school tomorrow, then force the family—minus Mom, of course—to interact with our new neighbors. Mom's probably gonna stay home and down a bottle of Vodka and Xanax. That's how she spends her 24/7's. But YOLO, right?

No. I swear to God if I hear you say that and actually mean it, I'll punch you in your kidneys. Stop it. Srsly.

Oh, yeah, did I mention that the house across the street is creepy as fuck? I mean, its name, "The Murder House," is creepy enough, but whenever I sneak a peek out of my window, I swear I can see someone standing in the window right across from mine. Like, it's really scaring me. Maybe it's new house jitters or something. But seriously, he's just looking at me right now. No, it's just a teenage insomniac that wants to frick frack. That's it. Okay, I'm laying down now.

So, anyways, I'm probably going to spend the next four hours catching up on my self-loathing; since the move and everything I've had to cancel it the past few weeks. Yeah, that and break open some scabs. Because I'm depressed, and that's what most people who aren't depressed stereotype us to do all the time.

Because people. Ew.

* * *

So, when waking up to what I presume to be is morning, the first things I hear are my mother's drunken slurs echoing up the steps. She's cussing at a plate of China or something, I don't know. The point is: I won't be going back to bed today.

After a few minutes of tears and inner turmoil, I make the decision to get up and get ready...okay, so I lied—I'm only going to get up right now. Baby steps, people, baby steps.

My tired feet clamber down the carpeted steps, and I have to quickly brace against the railing when one of my feet fails tHE ONLY THING I NEED IT TO DO AND MISSES A STEP. To be fair, the steps are pretty small.

After having a near-death experience, I find my family in the living room watching T.V. Josh is on his iPod, probably looking at nudes one of his girl friends sent him, Mom's passed out upright on the couch with her head resting so lowly on her chest her nose is touching her nipple, and Max is on the floor, having no worries like a toddler tends to do and trying to put a square block into a triangular opening.

If that doesn't sum up my family, I don't know what will.

When a growl wrestles the insides of my stomach, I walk into the kitchen. Adam's sitting on a stool at the island, stuffing his face with McDonald's.  
Hold up.

Okay, now, so am I. Chicken biscuits from McDonald's are the way to a girl's heart. Screw diamonds. Yeah, my mom's boyfriend just brought me food, so he just went from hated step-father to less-hated step-father. Seriously, who am I kidding? This man is to me what drugs are to drug dealers. Pretty damn profitable, ya feel me? Because he'll make me money by giving me money. Because he wants me to like him.

And then I get really, really depressed...My precious food is gone. Eaten without a second thought. Man, I remember when that biscuit was still there...I miss those days.

"Oh! Can you peel me that orange?" I turn around at the sound of Josh's voice, and look down at the table to find a single orange sitting there.

Wat.

"Yeah," I say slowly, then toss the fruit at him on my way upstairs. I need to go ahead and get ready. Might as well get it out of the way before I get on the internetz.

Tumblr is the only thing in my life that will love me no matter what...

* * *

"You need to stop."

In my sweatpants, hospital socks, and sweatshirt, I had attempted to log on to the internet, only to find that there is...no...internet.

A shiver creeps up my spine as a cold breeze from my fan hits me. This house is as cold as my school back home, but I always have to have a fan going no matter how freezing my room is. Same thing with hot rooms and blankets—I always have to have something covering my upper legs and middle.

Does anybody else do that? No? Just me? Okay.

"Marissa, Josh, get down here! We have guests!" Mom yells drunkenly from the bottom of the steps.

I shuffle lazily out of my bedroom, pulling my hair into its infamous shitty bun. Seriously, what are the odds of ever seeing these people again?

Josh meets me at the apex of the stairs, throwing on a wrinkled shirt over his lanky frame. Awkward puberty stages are the worst puberty stages.

"I swear to God, Marissa," he mutters to me as we walk down the stairway to meet the Devil herself, "if Mom tries to act like she's a perfect angel who gives a shit about her kids, I'll punch her in the throat."

"Same," I reply with a chuckle.

We meet the rest of the family in the living room, sitting on one of the couches. Our guests are sharing the other opposite to them.

An older couple with a teenage daughter. Welp.

Everyone turns to look at us, and a large wave of embarrassment and anxiety washes my insides of any confidence I once possessed. Mom beckons us over, and I see that Max is in her lap looking as uncomfortable as me. She hands him over to me and nicely orders me to get him a snack in the kitchen. Josh and I share a look that says: "Mom's throat looks pretty punchable today."

With a sigh that mixes sadness and relief, I walk into the kitchen. I know why she did it. She's embarrassed by me because I don't cake my face in makeup and fry my hair to bits and wear clothes that leave nothing to the imagination just to look "presentable" around the house and, in my case, at school.

I dig around in the fridge for a minute before I find a pudding cup, yogurt, and some juice boxes. Friggin' pudding cup is mine.

After a few minutes of hard labor, Max gets to enjoy some cut up apples and milk, while I sit at the island and savor this chocolate heaven that has entered my mouth. A warm silence washes over the room.

"You're into Nirvana?"

At the break in silence, extremely awkward noises come out of my mouth for a few seconds before I turn to look at the teenage girl I had just seen in the living room.

"Yah," I say slowly, stretching my mouth into a wide, forced grin.

"My friend's really into Nirvana," she tells me as her feet pace around the kitchen.

I nod my head and throw my garbage in the trash bin next to me. I look over at her. She's looking at a stack of magazines on the kitchen counter, and I can't help but notice the long sleeves hiding her arms from view by an over-sized cardigan that covers a dress hanging loosely from her frame.

"I don't have any friends," I confess solemnly to the girl I had just met not even two minutes ago, the girl with the purple dress and sleeve-covered arms and has the friend that likes 90's rock. "Even before I moved here, I didn't have any; I don't like having friends." I glance up at her and clear my throat. "My name's Marissa, by the way. And-and I wouldn't mind chatting with you when I need someone to talk to, ya know, since I don't know anybody here. And you live across the road."

The girl turns around and leans back against the kitchen counter, flashes me a half-smile, and says: "I'm Violet, and I wouldn't give a shit either way."


	2. Disappointment

**Warning: Strong trigger warning for _self-harm_. Yeah, please skip this chapter if you are afraid it may trigger you in anyway, and I completely understand if you don't read it. It triggered me pretty badly, so do what you think is best. You deserve it and your body thanks you.**

_**Inspirational comment of the chapter: yoU LOOK BEAUTIFUL TODAY I CAN FEEL IT THROUGH THE SCREEN ITS RADIATING THROUGH THE PITS OF MY SOUL I DONT EVEN HAVE TO KNOW WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE BUT 10/10 WOULD BANG IM PROUD OF YOU FOR ACTUALLY WAKING UP TODAY AND PUTTING UP WITH PEOPLES SHIT AND JUST GETTING OUT OF BED YOU DESERVE AN AWARD AND I WISH I COULD GIVE YOU THAT YOU'RE AMAZING OK DON'T THINK ANY DIFFERENT!11**_

* * *

**Into The Ocean—Chapter 2:**

**Disappointment**

Today is one of those days that I want to punch myself in the face. Why? Not only did I enroll in school the day before one of those shitty state-wide tests that takes six hours, but Adam had to take us home early to take Mom to the hospital. Drug overdose or some shit.

So, here I am. Sitting on my bed alone like the loser I am. I'm listening to some Nirvana song on my computer, playing it as loudly as I possibly can, and Josh is in his room playing the new video game Adam bought him. Said-man is at his new job. Yeah, it's only been a week or so since we moved in and he already has a job. I have nothing to say about that—it's pretty damn impressive.

I prop my elbows up on my knees and run my fingers through my tangled hair. I contemplate it for a second. Hurting myself. It's tempting, and I need the relief as badly as my lungs need air. The stress of everything is driving me crazy, and my hours alone have sparked roots to sink into my chest from a new species of worry that I've never experienced.

"Fuck it," I hiss, then jump off of the bed and run for my underwear drawer, where my relief is tucked into a pair of socks. I quickly grab one, the cold metal calming me already as it sits nicely in my palm.

My feet carry me to the bathroom, touching cold tiled floors and then the porcelain of the tub. I lift the sleeves of my sweatshirt, and with a quick flick of my wrist the pain and relief mix together and make me feel as if the disgusting monsters hidden under my skin have been released through the blood bubbling up on the already-scarred skin of my arm. One turns to five, then ten, then fifteen, then twenty deep cuts marring my arms. I lower my head for a minute and focus on the life trickling down my arm like rain on a window when it sprinkles.

Josh calls my name, casual and relaxed, as if he wants me to get him a drink from downstairs. I slide to the floor and stare into space in shock, because it's what I always do when I realize what the hell I just did... I swear, I don't want to do this. I hate what I've done to myself—my own body. This isn't something anybody should have to rely on in order to make it through the day without an anxiety attack or thoughts of suicide or to feel normal.

"Marissa, seriously!" Josh yells, and his voice is much closer than I had hoped. He opens the door, looks down at my pathetic body on the floor, bleeding from self-inflicted wounds. My brother doesn't say anything—he gives me a disgusted look, scoffs, and says: "That's pretty pathetic. I don't know why you would wanna do that to yourself. It doesn't make the memories go away, or the pain, or anything that happened to me and you. It doesn't solve anything."

"It helps me forget," I grit out through loathful tears. "You wouldn't get it, and I hope you never do."

At that pregnant moment, there's a knock at the front door. I hurry to the sink and wash off the drying blood. Wrap a paper towel around my fresh cuts and pull down my sleeves and wipe the tears from my cheeks so I can play the perfect daughter for company. Us siblings part ways at the bottom of the stairs, him heading toward the kitchen and me, the front door.

I peek out of the curtains covering the windows beside the door and see Mrs. Harmon carrying a plate of cupcakes. I place the wine-colored fabric back in its place and unlock the door. She smiles at me and cocks her head slightly to the side.

"Hi, Marissa. I'm Vivien; my family lives in the house across the road, as you probably know." She shakes her head. "Anyways, I saw the ambulance in your driveway yesterday and I got a little worried, so I brought over some cupcakes to help you feel better. I was going to make them today, but with unpacking and all that I didn't get the time to."

I lower my head and lick my dry lips, then step aside to let her in. "Thank you so much, Vivien, but I feel bad that you did all this." _I can tell that you'd rather have your teeth ripped out than be here_, I think about saying, _but you wanna be nice, don't you?_ "I appreciate it so much; thank you."

"It's the best I can do, and I'm right across the street if you need anything, so is Violet and Ben..." She trails off, obviously wanting to say something but decides to hold her tongue.

I sniffle and place my hands on my hips. "It's more than my mom's done for me."

She sighs dejectedly. "I can't imagine how hard it must be, not having your mother there for you," she tells me, and there's a look in her eye that shows her wholesome concern. It makes me tear up a little.

"Thank you, Vivien, but I'd better get back to my homework," I say humbly, lowering my head and fiddling with my hands.

"Of course," she says softly, then heads toward the exit, "Before I go, I just want you to know that you can talk to my family about anything, okay? Ben's a psychologist, and Violet's been acting strange lately, and I think it would be good for her to have someone else to talk to, ya know?"

"Yeah. Bye Vivien."

"See ya later."

I close the door and grab a cupcake.

* * *

_Two weeks later..._

Today, I feel like complete shit. Reason one being my ingestion of a ton of sleeping pills last night that were prescribed but never used. Reason two?...I forgot. Maybe I realized that nobody would give a damn if I died, or I'm terrible at everything I do, or nobody likes me—not even my own mom. She's been gone for over two days, claiming to watch over one of her friends and their child after the father had fallen and broken a few ribs. What a coincidence, eh? She just got out of the hospital three days ago (after being there almost a week) from an OD and I did the same thing last night, but where is she when I need her?

My mom really has to get some new friends...or none at all.

Anyways, she never came back, so Adam's had to watch over Josh and I—and take care of me.

*Note to self: don't try to OD unless you know you'll succeed. The morning after will give you nothing but vomit, dizziness, headaches, body aches, and an over-all shitty feeling. And that's never fun.*

So, I'm sitting here in computer class, fantasizing about doing the sex with that cute boy in my Spanish class. Oh, and lunch is in an hour and I absolutely dread it because, if you couldn't tell already, I don't want to be around people. Instead of focusing on the lecture about things we've known since the second grade, I'm drawing shittily and writing my feelings down on this crappy notebook I found from the fifth grade.

Turns out Violet and I have this same class. So we're sitting together in order to stay away from the freshman and the stupid sexist assholes up front.

"I think I've finally found Hell," she whispers across from me, and I stifle a laugh.

The desks are set up really weirdly, with the computer and its components sitting in front of you, yet there's this huge desk connected to it that acts as another desk if you scoot your chair around a little. Like, wat? It makes this weird caddy-corner and I don't like it at all. I will admit though: it's great to pass notes back and forth, especially if the teacher is anywhere but behind you. We do that a lot.

I hear the sound of paper being moved across the desk and I blindly grab at the table until my hand finds purchase on what I'm looking for. I turn away from Mr. Thompson for a minute and unfold the note.

'Have you talked to your mom?' it says, and I scribble a quick reply, then fold it and slide it over to her desk. She reads my answer and gives me an apologetic look. I shrug my shoulders, and she looks down at the paper and writes something else. This time when I read it she asks me if I want to come over this evening, and I can't contain my excitement as I write a hurried 'yes' on the paper.

The class passes by fairly quickly, and in no time the bell rings for lunch. Violet and I are already halfway down the hallway, of course. We make our way outside and sit in the same spot we had for a few days: the bleachers, away from everyone else talking about—and mocking—us, and it's refreshing to get an awkward silence between us two instead of the pity parties and gossip the girls around me squawk about whenever I try to talk to them.

"I swear to God," I start with a huff of weariness, "if I hear one more fake bitch moan on and on about how her mom yelled at her to do something, I'm going to punch myself in the fucking face." I take a puff from the cigarette she offers me and press a hand to my forehead.

"I know, right? All of these people are so wrapped up in themselves they couldn't give a shit about anyone else with real problems," Violet replies after she takes a drag of her cigarette, greyish smoke billowing from her nostrils.

There's an awkward pause that drifts between us, and it seems like it lasts ten, fifteen minutes. It makes my face itch.

"I took some pills last night," I blurt out, hiding the smile on my face with my hand. I shouldn't be proud of it, but I am. I don't know about you, but suicide isn't the least bit cowardly. Show me one coward who's able to down a bottle of pills without second thought.

Exactly. You can't.

I feel Violet's stare on the side of my face, and I hurredly wipe the smile off of my lips. I turn to her, and I wasn't expecting her to look so...surprised.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me you wanted to kill yourself?" is the first thing the spews from her mouth. She puts the cigarette out on the concrete below us. "You do realize I'm extremely pissed at you, right?"

I shrug my shoulders. "You wouldn't be the first," I say matter-of-factly, "but I thought of all people you would be someone I could trust with this, Violet."

"I'm not saying you can't trust me, Marissa. I'm just saying that could've told me you felt like this a long time ago, because I don't want you dead. You're one of the only people I can tolerate right now." A smirk catches the corner of her mouth, and I can't help but chuckle at her speech.

"You're such a bitch," I hiss playfully, then push her over and leap up out of her reach. I grab my bag and duck out from under the bleachers just as the bell rings for the end of lunch. "See ya later, weirdo!"

"I'm gonna kill you when you come over," she yells back, and we head into opposite ends of the building. Everyone's already made it inside.

* * *

After school, Violet and I keep our word—we're relaxing on her bed, soft indie music playing in the background as we talk about our problems. Well, I do. Violet doesn't talk about what's bothering her most of the time. It makes me feel bad, complaining as I am.

I look over at her, and I realize how pretty she actually is; her brunette hair is perfectly straightened as always, those hazel eyes showing a pain that nobody but her knows the reason behind. She catches me staring at her, and I search her face furiously for something that would let me know what she was thinking. We're complete opposites. How does she hide her feelings so thoroughly?

"You're creeping me out, staring at me like that," she says warily, furrowing her brows.

"I'm just trying to figure you out," I confess with a sigh, then tear my eyes away from her face and look at the ceiling.

"This isn't Twilight, stupid. It's not that easy to "figure someone out"."

I look at her and we both share a chuckle that suggests everything's fine between us. At least I laughed at her joke; nobody ever laughs at mine but me.

"Hey, Violet," I start, rolling onto my side on the bed. I kick her in one of the arms she's leaning on to support her upper body, and she shifts from laying on her stomach to sit cross-legged. She's still reading that book about your average teenage girl turned emo by...being a damn teenager.

"I'm almost finished with this chapter," she informs me, flipping a stray set of hairs out of her eye.

"I have a really good joke, though!" I gush excitedly, moving up to sit on my knees. She sighs and looks from the book to me. "Okay, okay. My throat hurts because I've been screaming at people in my head all day." I give an encouraging nudge of her shoulder, but she turns back to her book. I groan. "Fuck you. I've been thinking that up all day."

"Was it after screaming at people in your head all day?" she asks mockingly. I tilt my head to the side and squint my eyes.

"You think this is a motherfucking game?"

"Stop with the memes, Marissa."

"Stop being such a whiny cunt, Violet." She rolls her eyes in response and goes back to reading her angsty book. "I'm going to the bathroom."

"Have fun," she mumbles monotonously as I walk out of the bedroom with my bag in hand.

I step into the bathroom, look into the mirror, and roll up the sleeves of my black sweater. I know I have to hurry as fast as I can in order to sneak around Mr. Harmon's current patient. The junk inside of my shoulder bag is pushed out of the way so it's easier to search for my blade, and I find it. Tucked into the same pair of bland socks from home. Perfect lines form as the blade is dragged across my skin again and again. I have this OCD about having perfectly straight, parallel cuts. I don't know either.

The blade is pulled from my hand, and I whip around in surprise and fear. Oh shit...Is that Ben's patient? I tilt my head a little and reach for the blade.

The boy pulls it out of my reach and furrows his brow.

"You're getting blood on the floor," he informs me, and I look down to realize his statement is true.

"Shit." I look up at him and hold out my hand. "Hurry up and give me my blade so I can clean this up before anybody comes upstairs."

"How do you know I don't wanna use it." He crosses his arms, and I huff at his response.

"Just give it to me!" My feet are moving before I can stop them and then next thing I know, it's back in my hand and he's looking down at his own.

"I really appreciate that. Now I have to explain to Dr. Harmon what kind of friends his daughter has." And he walks out of the bathroom.

fUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK WHAT DO I DO OH MY GOD WHAT IF HE REALLY TELLS BEN ABOUT THIS OH JESUS SHOULD I CLEAN THE BLOOD UP OR STOP HIM?!1

I pick the blood cleaning first; that is going to be explainable if someone sees it, but a few words can't be proven. I hope. My method of choice is toilet paper, because I've had too many experiences with blood and towels that I don't want to relive, especially at a friend's house—a friend that I've only known for a few weeks.

"Really." I hear Violet's voice and freeze in the spot, then I realize who exactly it is and start wiping up faster. "Of all places, the floor?"

"I'm sorry, but your dad's patient walked in on me—"

"Tate?" she interjects, and I shrug my shoulders. "Does he have unruly blonde hair?"

I blink. "Yeah, that's him, why?"

"The first time I met him, it was the exact same way. Then he told me how to kill myself."

"Down the river not across the stream, Violet. Everyone and their mother knows that saying," I tell her exasperatedly, along with an eye roll.

"He just seems like he has a sixth sense for that shit, ya know?" She throws a bundle of bloodied toilet paper down the toilet.

"If anyone asks, I had diarrhea," I say slowly, then catch her 'wtf' look in the corner of my eye. "Hey, you can't tell me I'm the only one that blames that shit on company."

...

"You're really fuckin' weird. I have no idea of what I was on when I suggested we be friends."

"The drug that knew you were new to the town and you didn't have any friends either," I reply with a sweet smile.

"Oh, yeah. That."

There's a short silence until the mess is cleaned up, and then we both stand, wash our hands, and retreat back into the bedroom.

I sigh and gather my things together. "I should probably go. My mom's gonna kill me if I get home late."

"Okay, well, it was nice doing nothing with you," she mutters and sits down on the bed. "See you tomorrow."

"Ditto."I walk out of her room, through the hallway, and down the stairs. Ben is sitting there in his therapist chair, with the boy named Tate across from him. He looks up at me and I stop in the large doorway, preparing to say goodbye. Tate turns around in his chair as Ben says an apology and walks past him, towards me. The blonde stares at me with a blank face, and our eye contact breaks only when Ben steps in front of me.

"If anything happens, you know you can call at any time, right?" Ben rubs my shoulder like a father would his daughter, and I can't help but lean into his hand. I crave it—being touched out of affection. It's nothing I've ever experienced before in my life, and it feels nice. It makes me feel cared for...

"I know. Thanks so much, Mr. Harmon. For everything your family has done for me, and my brother, and the rest of my own family. Life's..." I glance over Ben's shoulder at Tate sitting there, watching the scene with potent interest, "hard right now. For everybody."

"And that's why we need to stick together, right?" He gives me a warm smile and I can't help but wrestle with the toilet paper covering my arms.

"Exactly..." I sigh dejectedly. "Well, I'd better get home. I have a really strict curfew."

"It's only five o'clock," Tate adds, then stands up and walks over to us. Ben clears his throat.

"I'm sorry. I'm almost done here. Just go get comfortable and I'll be over there in a minute."

"I dunno, Doc. This girl looks pretty interesting to me." Tate leans against the doorway's inner wall and crosses his arms. "You sure she isn't trouble?"

Ben looks over at me and smiles while the boy points a finger at his arm and makes slow cutting motions. He shrugs his shoulders after I give him a disgusted look and the older man turns to inspect him.

"I'd better go, Mr. Harmon," I say lowly, "My mom's gonna be pissed."

"Okay, Marissa. Be safe!" Ben farewells, and I give him a smile and close the front door on my way out.

* * *

"Oh, you're back," Josh greets me, and I sit down beside him on the couch in the living room. Cuss words are spewing from the t.v., and I can only assume he's playing Call of Duty like he always is. He answers my question before I'm able to ask it. "Mom's upstairs out of it. She's been that way since—REALLY YOU FAGGOT? FUCKING HACKER!—since a few minutes after you left."

I laugh bitterly and shake my head. "What else was I expecting?"

"For her to actually be a—I SWEAR TO GOD—mother for once," he replies nonchalantly, focusing more on his game than the morality of our mother. I can't blame him, though. You grow immune to things you've been exposed to for a long time.

A yawn rattles my head, and I take it upon myself to realize that i should probably go to bed.

"Josh, I'm going to bed." I stand up from the couch, grab the fabric shoulder strap of my purse, and head towards the stairs. "Oh, and the other team is kicking your ass."

"GO FUCK Y—MOTHERFUCKING BALLSACK, WE LOST AGAIN!"

* * *

**A/N: **Wat even is this I don't even know please help me how do i write these fingers create nothing but destruction im soRRY YOU WERE SUBJECTED TO THIS PLEASE FORGIVE THIS OFFERING OF A SASSY-ASS TATE BECAUSE I LOVE WHEN HE'S AN ASSHOLE AMIRIGHT?!

Anyways, yeah, this. Friggin' half of this was wrote today after I got home from the dentist because I was supposed to get my wisdom teeth taken out but nothing ever goes right for me so of course it didn't happen and I cried a little and I wrote this. And one of the jokes in this section of paragraphs was actually said by me today and I laughed for five straight minutes at the context of the situation that the joke was in. And I thought it was too hilarious to not put into this story. I'm sorry. It's not as funny in here...

Lol the whole time I was typing I was just laughing at jokes I made it was fun it's what i needed i feel a lot better now i need to shower and get to bed becuase im going to cry if i dont get sleep lol see it in m y writing it drastically changes im about to fall asleep ill

bye


	3. Worry

_Holy water cannot help you now  
See I've come to burn your kingdom down  
And no rivers and no lakes can put the fire out  
I'm gonna raise the stakes, I'm gonna smoke you out_

_Seven devils all around me!_  
_Seven devils in my house!_  
_See they were there when I woke up this morning_  
_I'll be dead before the day is done_

_Seven devils all around you_  
_Seven devils in your house_  
_See I was dead when I woke up this morning_  
_I'll be dead before the day is done_  
_Before the day is done_

_—"Seven Devils" Florence + The Machine_

* * *

**Into The Ocean—Chapter 3:**

**Worry**

"Play with me, sissy!" Max tugs my leggings when I walk through the door after a long day of school. I look down at him, and that mess of unruly blonde curls reminds me so much of Tate that I want to rip every single strand out of his head.

The reason? All that's happened when I've been over to Violet's is Tate's constant mocking...I really don't know how he knows when I come over, but every time I'm there he always ends up seeing Dr. Harmon by the time I leave to send me hateful looks.

"Where's Mom, bub?" I ask him, lowering down onto one knee. He shifts around for a minute, tugging on the hem of his Justice League shirt. Hazel eyes meet green, and the look on his face tells me that he doesn't know any more than I do.

I pick him up in my arms and adjust the strap of my shoulder bag with a hand—it had fallen into the crook of my arm. He lays his head on my shoulder and grabs the front of my sweater for balance.

"Let's go to Violet's," I suggest softly, and his eyes light up when he looks at me, "Maybe they know where Mommy is..." He jumps in my arms, and I can't help but laugh, and he does too.

We hurredly cross the clear street, walk through the gate that leads into the Harmon's front yard, and head for the door.

"Biolet!" Max yells excitedly.

"Give me a minute and you'll be able to see her," I resspond firmly, and he thankfully quiets down.

I knock on the door of the old Victorian house, and Moira answers the door, greeting Max and I with a humble smile.

"Hello, Marissa," she says as she steps aside to let me in the home, "and hi to you, Max." The toddler giggles when she playfully tickles his side.

"Moira, have you seen Vivien or Ben?" I ask curiously, and then we start walking through the hallway.

Wadya know? Ben is having a session with Tate. Again. Both guys look at me when I approach the doorway to the study, and Tate looks at me with a predatory stare.

"I—I hate to interrupt, but this is urget," I tell the two, and step into the study. "Can I just ask you one question, and then I'll be gone."

"Marissa," Ben starts with a sigh, and I just wait for him to scream at me. "I wish I could help, but—"

"No," Tate interjects with a held-out hand. "If it'll only take a second, then what's the harm, eh?" Ben glances between me and the blonde sitting in front of him, then with a sigh, waves me over.

"Have you seen my mom?" I ask him, and I know that the look on my face has to be one of calmness, as if it happened all the time. But it doesn't.

Ben leans back in his chair and puts an arm on the armrest.

"I haven't, actually," he says, perturbed. "Haven't you seen her?" I shake my head dejectedly, and he says nothing in return.

"Maybe it's best that she could possibly be dead," Tate interjects nonchalantly, "seeing as she's an abusive mother and all."

I open my mouth for words I can't find, and my lips flutter like a fish's does when gasping for water.

"Tate," Ben tells the boy calmly, "that was extremely uncalled for."

The blonde scoffs.

"This isn't the fucking third grade anymore. It's the real world, so it's time you put your close-minded bullshit away and weigh out the situation here." He stands up and begins pacing around the room. "From what an inside source has told me, and what I've heard between you and Violet, your mother was never a mother to you, so you need to accept the fact that she'll never _be_ a mother to you."

I squint my eyes and shift from foot to foot, Max fast asleep in my arms. A thought crosses my mind that says _he_ isn't the psychiatrist here.

"And how would you know?" I hiss at him, twisting my lips into a nasty grimace.

"My mom's exactly like that." He shrugs his shoulders and turns to me with a blank expression. I adjust Max so he isn't falling out of my arms, and he stirs, twists a handful of the collar of my shirt in his hand. I look down at my little brother and guiltiness stirs in my chest. It hurts me that I couldn't have been a better sister; given him a better childhood than I had.

"I'm sorry," I whisper and avert my eyes to the wooden floor below my feet. A strong gut feeling tells me that I've misjudged him. I don't know anything about him. More than likely, he's had to have been through a lot to be so messed up he's had to visit a psychiatrist.

"It's fine. She's been a cocksucker for years."

"Tate, I think that's enough. We should get back to our session," Ben interrupts and steers the teen away from me.

"Oh, okay," he says flatly, lets Ben lead him to the leather couch while he always sits. I watch the older man rest his clipboard on his lap and begin talking. It feels like something's off about Tate, but I can't figure out what it is, nor do I want to figure it out. Sometimes ignorance is bliss.

"Down." I look at Max and realize that he's struggling to be released from my arms. So I sit him down on the floor and watch him toddle towards the kitchen, then follow after him.

Moira is standing at the counter, icing a chocolate cake while Viven readies a batch of cupcakes. They both look up at me once I knock on the door, and Max reaches the mother. He stretches onto his toes and clenches then unclenches his hands in a desperate attempt for affection. Just like the rest of us kids in our family.

"Hi, Marissa," Vivien greets me as usual, then lifts Max into her arms to balance him on a hip. "Is something wrong?" I can already tell that my body language is giving me away—uneasy actions and on-edge posture are telltale signs of someone that's having a problem.

"Have you seen Mom?" I ask them curiously as I sit down on a stool at the island.

"Check next door. Constance may know where she is. She knows everything and anything about this neighborhood," the mother informs me while putting the cupcakes in the oven.

"Thank you so much." As I start out of the kitchen, my feet stop once I remember Max.

"Don't worry. He can stay with us until you get everything straightened out." Vivien shows me a wide, trustful smile, and I duck my head in thanks and walk down the hallway. I pass by Ben's study and slow down to a creep. Ben glances over at me and gives me a slight smile before looking back at Tate, what's rambling passionately about something he feels strongly towards or so I'm guessing.

The cold air cuts against the uncovered skin of my face like a sharp razor, and I feel a sharp contrast to the sun beating against my tangled hair and cool face. I walk over next door and knock on the door. And older woman opens the door and, upon seeing me, smiles and leans against the doorway.

"Can I help you, honey?" Her southern accent is like silken honey to my ears, and I smile back at her.

"Yes, actually," I respond matter-of-factly, "I'm looking for a woman with shortish dark blonde hair, brown eyes, light skin...? Have you seen someone that fits that profile?" Her lips form a hard line, and she steps aide to wave me through the doorway.

"I'm guessing that's your mother?" she asks as she leads me into the kitchen, "Constance, by the way."

"Marissa. And yeah, she's been gone a few days, and I know she does a ton of stupid shit, but she never ups and leaves without telling someone." I sit down at the table in the center og the kitchen. The whole house is cluttered and smal and it makes me feel very uncomfortable and awkward. The woman fills two cups with a warm tea she had made on the stovetop. She brings them over to the table and sits down, reaching one over to me from across the table.

"Listen, honey," she starts, pauses to light a cigarette and take a long drag, "if your mother is anywhere but with you, she's a shitty goddamn woman. My kids never left my side, and I never left theirs." She knocks the leftover ashes from her cigarette into a black ash tray that rests in front of her, beside of the tea cup. "I was a damn good mother, I tell ya that. Still am."

"Where are they?" I take a small sip of the concoction, and the taste bitters my mouth, but I don't have the heart to tell her that I hate tea. "Um, your kids, I mean." Constance sighs and concentrates on the dark liquid unmoving in her cup.

"Addy's out back playing, and my two other sweet, sweet boys are long gone." Tears dot her eyes and she looks to the ceiling to blink them away, then pats her lower eyelids with a cloth to rid them of any leftover wetness that may ruin her makeup. Constance takes a final drag from her cigarette and puts it out in the ash tray. "A piece of advice, if I may, Marissa: never have kids. They'll kill you faster than any fatal disease will."

I avert my eyes to the table and focus solely on the chipped nail polish on my fingernails, scraping the thinner parts off with the almost-invisible nail on my thumb.

"I should probably get back home," I tell her as I slowly rise from my seat. Constance shrugs her shoulders and laughs.

"I get it. You don't want to hang out with an old hag like me." She sighs and rises from her chair. Offers me a pack of open cigarettes, and I eagerly take one. The cancerous tube is lit and the smoke that fills my lungs offers me some relief from my never-ending stress. "I figured that a girl as troubled as you smoked."

"You're right, then," I mumble with a chuckle, cloudy smoke billowing from my nostrils, and it burns like the fresh cut of a razor. It soothes me in a macabre way, and I can't help but revel in it.

Suddenly, the phone rings. It's one of those old timey ring that has an eery sound to it, as the ring sounds as if its running out of batteries. Constance gets up and walks over to where the phone sits against the wall.

"Yes?" she greets sweetly, then her eyes roll to signify her irritation. "Yeah, she is." Constance looks over at me from the corner of her eye and hands me the phone. I warily take it and press the speaker against my ear. The phone smells like cheap makeup and strong perfume.

"Hello?" I say to the unknown body on the other side of the speaker.

"Marissa, I found your mom." It's Vivien. Her voice has a wavering tone, and I can tell something is wrong. "She's been down in the basement and Ben says she's borderline catatonic. She says she can't come out unless you're here."

"Okay," I respond quickly, then hang up the phone. "Constance, I have to go. They found my mom, but it was really nice meeting you." I lift my bag off the table and sling it over my shoulder, waving a hand in thanks as I head out the door and abandon my cigarette in the grass.

I reach the Harmon's house, and Violet's standing outside, pacing back and forth on the grass. We lock eyes, and I run up to her in a haste once I see her distress.

"Jesus Christ, it took you long enough!" my friend reprimands me, drags me into the house and to the doorway of the basement. "She won't let anybody go down there but Dad." I sigh to myself and turn to her.

"Okay. Just—just go in the living room, and I'll figure out some way to get her out of here," I assure her calmly, yet my heart is beating so fast I feel like I'm going to have a heart attack. There isn't something right about that basement; it gives me chills.

Violet nods in understanding and leaves me alone at the foot of the steps. I descend slowly into the cold darkness, my shoes hitting the old concrete of the basement steps, and then the floor.

"Mom?" I call out cautiously, reaching out my arms to grope at the darkness. A small cry echoes off the walls, so soft I almost miss it. Almost. "Hello?" A hand pushes me by my back so hard I fall to my knees, and it startles me so badly my body automatically bolts up, runs towards the light of upstairs.

"Not so fast!" an ominous voice from the darkness, mocking my waxing fear. As I reach the top step and head for the door, it shuts right in my face. I cling to the rail next to me on the staircase to keep from falling down all the steps.

"Violet!" I shriek, crawling back up towards the closed door. Tears blur my vision once I turn the knob and realize that it's not going to open. My feet carry me down to the ground floor, and I walk through the rooms, desperately trying to find something to rid the basement of its darkness. Instead, I find my mother sitting on the floor in the center of an empty room. Tate's sitting in front of her, saying something incomprehensible.

"Just tell them to go away," I hear him inform her, "and they will. Any time you see them or hear them, just tell them to leave you alone."

"Who's _them_?" I ask slowly, curiously once I'm able to find my voice. I step into the bright glow from a flashlight laying on the ground, illuminating my figure.

Tate looks up at me with a morbidity that enhances the dark circles under his eyes and makes me wary to step any closer, yet my feet advance towards him and my mother. It scares me, the unknown lurking in the dark of this place, and seeing his black eyes bore into mine doesn't make it any easier to handle.

"It's nothing," he says to me with a shake of his head, and the aversion of his eyes tells me that there's something shady about this situation. "Just trying to help your mom." My eyes widen worriedly at that statement, and I warily shuffle over to him.

"I would rather you just...stay away from her," I tell him slowly, calmly so he doesn't tip over the edge of his tolerance level. Ben warned me of his temper. "I don't know what you're trying to pull, but I would appreciate you leaving my family out of it." I walk over to my mother and he stands up once I start shaking her shoulders, repeatedly telling her to snap out of it. I want to get out of here as soon as possible.

"What are you talking about?" he demands, holding out his arms in a visible shrug. "What did Ben tell you?" His voice becomes eerily calm at the last sentence, and a shiver creeps up my spine. I shake my head, shushing the teared-up teen in front of me.

"There's no reason to cry. It's okay." I step around Mom and walk up to him. Lay a hand timidly on his shoulder. "I know about you and Violet, and Ben knew days before I did." He chuckles a pushes my hand away in aggravation.

"He can suck a cock for all I care." There's a pregnant pause—seeing as I'm too speechless to talk—before he speaks again, slow and soothingly. "I really care about Violet, and I've never really cared about anybody like this, so it's a new feeling, ya know?"

I slowly nod my head and force a fake smile to appear on my lips, then decide that I really need to have a long talk with Violet.

My mom suddenly sighs under us and gets her feet groggily, as if she had taken a long nap on the floor.

"Marissa, what are you doing here?" she grumbles in irritation, then looks around at her surroundings in disgust. "How'd I get here?"

I look around for Tate to help with my answer, and he's nowhere to be found. How did he get down into the basement anyways?

"Let's go back home so I can sleep." Mom trudges up the stairs of the basement as she continues ranting about something I don't care about.

As I follow her up the steps, a hand grabs my bicep and stops me. I turn around and come face-to-face with Tate, who has both hands on either side of me to hold onto the rail, so we don't lose balance on the steps.

"You're not gonna tell anybody about me being here, are you?" he mutters in a hushed, nervous voice, his abnormally cold breath chilling my flushed face.

"Are you going to let me go?" I retort quickly, my voice betraying me and wavering slightly in fear. I sink into the wood against my back and turn my head warily away from him. He blinks a couple of times, a shocked look on his face, and leans back against the opposite wooden rail.

"Are you really afraid of me?" he whispers in a small voice of dismay, drops his hands to his sides dejectedly. I simply look at him. Tears well up in my eyes and my lungs fill with a much-needed air that had been nonexistent in my chest for a few seconds.

"I won't say anything under one condition." I hold up a finger and cross an arm across my chest. He looks off to the side, then looks back at me expectedly and nods his head like a child listening to his mom. "Please, Tate," I beg, stepping closer to him, "stay away from Violet. I don't want anything to happen to her. She's my only friend right now." I can see the muscles in Tate's jaw clench and his nostrils flare in anger.

"What the hell am I going to do to her, huh?" He steps closer to me defensively. "Kill her? Maybe—maybe get her on drugs, or get her to kill herself?"

"You're not okay, Tate!" I hiss quietly, needing to let it sink into his head. A light shake of my head accompanies my worried tone. "Especially not stable enough to be with somebody. This isn't going to end well."

"You're not any better, Marissa!" He reaches forward and pushes the sleeves of my sweater up my arms, tracing his cold fingers angrily over the welts of fresh wounds. I yank my arms away from his grip, and he backs away when my eyes release fresh tears. "Fuck, I'm okay. I'm fine." He runs his hands through the familiar mess of unruly blonde curls, tears marking wet trails down his pale cheeks.

Max calls to me from upstairs, a playful tone in his voice. I wipe my face with the palms of my hands and take one last look at the crying boy in front of me, then walk up the stairs.

"Please, don't ruin this," he pleads desperately, "she's the only thing I have!"

I leave him standing on the lower steps of the staircase, wearing his over-sized sweater, converse, and holey jeans, and I calmly walk through the hallway with my mother and Max. Mom asks me where I've been, so I smile and tell her that it's not a big deal. I lower my head sadly and look back at the house as we walk across the street to our own. I can only think of one question:

What has my family gotten ourselves into?

* * *

**A/N: **hi my mom is being my mom again and is trying to bail her druggy boyfriend out of jail and my grandmother won't let her take her car cause she's put over 1,000 miles on her car over the course of two days and im pr sure she's back on drugs again and i hate myself and everyone else and i wanna die and ye no more about my shitty life

How was your day, beautiful? I hope your day was better than my...life.

I really enjoyed writing this chapter because, well, I just...did. I have no idea what I'm doing with this, so if you have no idea where this will lead, don't worry, I don't either.

Have a wonderful day/afternoon/night.

PS: Sorry for no sarcasm in this 3,000+ words this time.


End file.
